


Becoming Leroy Jethro Gibbs

by Catherinefiremancer



Category: NCIS
Genre: Bullying, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Multi, Other, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:49:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22142062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catherinefiremancer/pseuds/Catherinefiremancer
Summary: His Mama was dying, and from his hiding places he witnessed her painful journey.The hospital smell had followed her home, the smell of lavender and beeswax polish now masked by the heavy fug of bed pans, damp washing and sweat.The once joyful sounds of her singing now absent replaced by silence, coughing and the awkward whispers of strangers.
Relationships: Jackson Gibbs & LJ Moore, Jethro Gibbs/Original Character(s)
Kudos: 4





	1. Leroy Jethro Gibbs

**Author's Note:**

> Things learned and experienced in childhood can have profound influences throughout life.
> 
> A young Gibbs is dealing the lengthy sickness and the eventual death of his mother. 
> 
> Jackson Gibbs just assumes that his young son dosen't understand what is happening to his mother, and begins to exclude the boy. 
> 
> This a small town in 1950's America, and the response of the majority of Stillwater residents are not pleasant. Whilst on the whole, the adults leave Jethro alone, many of the children, are excited to have a new victim to prey on.
> 
> WARNING  
> This story contains both a homophobic and a racial slur (N...o) that would, sadly, both have been acceptable during this era.
> 
> If these are issues and situations you prefer not to read, then, please explore other NCIS stories in our wonderful fanfiction universe.
> 
> As always I welcome constructive criticism and help to improve my work. This work has not been beta'd.

The hospital smell had followed her home, the smell of lavender and beeswax polish now masked by the heavy fug of bed pans, damp washing and sweat.

The once joyful sounds of her singing now absent replaced by silence, coughing and the awkward whispers of strangers. 

In this strangling of sound, he also lost his own voice. Adults told him to, 'To be a big boy, and not to let them see him cry. Big boys don't cry' So many times he was told this, by his Father, the doctor, the Priest, LG.  
Every authority figure had the same things to say to him. He wasn't to cry, wasn't to bother his Father or his Mother, was to be seen but not heard.

So, in a step which characterised his later years, he firstly stopped his tears, then muted his expressions, but inside of his small head, the torrents of emotions built and swirled, crashing against the walls he'd erected. This set the pattern of how he dealt with his emotions, something which would resonate again and again throughout his life.

People thought it was the Marine Corps and sniper training which taught him to move silently, but it was well before he enlisted that he learned to muffle his footsteps and to silently navigate first the house then beyond.

Something else he learned, long before his enlistment was that he could lie still for hours. Hiding, watching, doing his best not to get in the way or make work for them. 

He became adept at slipping unseen into her bedroom, sitting in the shadows, squeezed tightly between the wardrobe and the wall. From there he could see his Mama, as she lay in the big oak bed which seemed to be engulfing her bit by bit. 

He could no longer bear to look directly at his mother's face, the once smiling rosy cheeks now a grotesque parody, sunken eyes squeezed tight against the pain. Transparent skin pulled tight over her painfully sharp cheekbones and pale thin lips. Her mouth always parted, a slit of darkness from which the sounds of her pain filtered into the otherwise silent room, and visited him again each night in his sleep.

He sat against the wall, arms wrapped over his chest, tightly hugging himself. Trying to subdue the pricking of tears in his eyes, his lips muttered the silent mantra of  
'Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry, Mama don't die.'

His namesake began to help his father tend the shadow of what was once his mother. Money was too tight to afford even an unqualified woman to act as a nursemaid, so Leroy Jethro Moore stepped into their family more surely and visibly than he had been before. 

The man's deep voice ground its way through the fabric of the building, easing his Daddy's burden and his Mama's pain, but the town took notice of their unusual arrangement. 

The sharp words of those who had once offered help to Jackson, but now condemned him and the dark-skinned man who appeared to be thinking himself better than he should do. Gossips told of 'That a negro from the mine', who was helping Jackson Gibbs with his bedridden wife. That he was attending to a white woman and another man's wife at that, was a thing of scandal and outrage to many.  
Though some felt they had no right to judge the household, money was tight and what went on behind closed doors was none of their concern, but they were few and not as vocal fearing it would draw the gossips gaze into their private lives.

Still, the doctor's wife started her gossiping with equal amounts of glee and spite, first to the ladies of the bridge club and then the trustees of various charitable causes in Stillwater.  
The doctor spoke to his drinking buddies and those at the golf club. Before long the town knew their business. Some men and women spoke words of anger, hate and apartied, whilst their children just turned their backs or fists on the blue-eyed boy at school. 

If anyone saw the black eyes, bruises and torn knuckles they didn't ask why, or how, or when. He won fights against those a little older than himself, but it was bullies' older brothers who beat him to the floor. He wouldn't be cowed by them and rose time and again before his young body couldn't rise again, and he'd lay in the dirt. 

He'd lie there for a while, until they finished, grew tired of their humiliation of him. Then, he'd make his way to the creek to wash himself using the cool water to ease the bruises and disguise his hot tears.

What was worse, he couldn't decide the blows or the way they talked about his mama, you didn't need to know what all the words meant to know they were cruel and unpleasant.

Ed Gantry and his brothers took pleasure in the pain and hurt they saw in his young eyes. They were the product of their fathers hate and their mothers love for scandal.  
Ed Gantry Sr. was the Sheriff as his daddy and grand daddy before he had been. Each man's badge tarnished by the way they chose to use and abuse the trust that badge should convey. After all, it was only right that he got a healthy discount on goods he purchased, ate free at the diner and persecuted and extorted those he knew couldn't fight back.

Leroy often saw LJ Moore hugging his Daddy as both men cried about his Mama, or saw the odd lingering brush of brush against fingers. 

Until the savagery of the playground intervened he'd thought nothing of the embraces or touches the two men shared when they thought he wasn't there to witness them.

In the future, an older and more worldly Gibbs would understand the relationship the three adults shared. Knowing whilst Jackson and he were connected to him by biology, Leroy Jethro Moore loved him as strongly as any father also.

The two men knew the position that most of society held held this time and they absorbed the hate being so spewed spewed by the town towards them.  
But the animosity also extended to the 7-year-old boy who was as confused by this change change of behaviour. Those who once tousled his hair and told him how handsome he was, now ignored him or sent pointed looks his way and shouted of his families disgraceful behaviour.

When one night his bedroom was filled with firelight he pulled aside the curtain to see a group of spectres all dressed in white with pointed hoods. Gathered in a semi-circle about a giant burning cross, shouting their promises of brotherhood and hate. 

Terrified, he watched as the hooded men were dispersed into the night by his Daddy with his Winchester and LJ carrying a staff of some type. Fear held him in its trance and he imagined he could feel the heat of the flames on his face, smell the wood burn until become charcoal and ash.

He didn't know how long he looked out of his window that night, but when he awoke early the next morning on the floor beneath it he'd thought it was only a nightmare. Until on looking out into the dawn light he watched as his Daddy pulled the charred remains of the cross down, and dug out the circle of burned grass.

His life was spiralling out of control.

He tried to ask about the spectors in the night and why they were there, but no one answered or just said it wasn't his business. Even asking at school had resulted in a visit to the Principal's office and a talking to about little boys their stories and lies with the promise of punishment if he continued.

That night he sat in the dark prayed to a God he was fast losing faith in, for his Mama to get well and the spectors to stay away. Instead they visited in his dreams, white hoods, hiding grotesque faces which morphed in the reflected light from the flames. 

What woke from his dreams he couldn't say, but he woke to the smell of urine, his pyjamas and bed linen soaked. Embarrassed, he dragged the soiled sheets from his bed, before he pulled on a clean pair of shorts. 

He went down stairs to the laundry room and put them to soak in the large sink that held the soiled sheets from his mama's room. He hated that small room now, once it had smelt of clean fresh air and detergent, unfortunately now it smelt of sickness and decay, the odour clinging to the very fabric of the room's walls.

Those family members who would have usually taken notice of how the little boy was suffering were overwhelmed with their own impending grief and pressure of earning earning money to cover the ever-increasing medical bills and the approaching funeral costs.

They didn't see the lunch money being slipped back into the old sugar canister that held her housekeeping money. As her sickness increased they all just assumed Leroy was taking his lunch money and eating. Before long the money he made running errands and chopping kindling wood was also slipped into the canister. 

Some gossips and bigots that discussed his family in such hate filled terms saw no reason why they shouldn't take advantage of the boy and situation. Why not to pay a scant few pennies for a mornings hard graft by the child.  
The white picket fence of small town America which they so proudly displayed to the outside world, and if the foundations of their houses were collapsing under the lies and disharmony, appearances were being maintained

Before too long his home lost all of its sense of security and people noticed less the increasingly scrawny boy with the blue eyes who stayed out later and later often sleeping in the woods or any barns he could. 

The football coach saw potential in those closed off blue eyes, with the piss and vinegar scowl and made him try out for the team. Despite the anger of certain members of the school board, they couldn't revoke the place he'd won. The coach ensured he ate lunch and completed his school work, enabling him to advance through the grades towards High school. The retired Marine built some control into the young hothead and gave him not only focus but a role model. 

He still had to endure the regular beat downs and the slurs about his family. He still hovered on the edge of Stillwater's community and ran errands for anyone who'd pay him. 

Now aged only 9 his views on life were changing fast and not in a positive way. The enthusiasm which had once had him getting stung by bees, sprayed by a skunk all in one week had become jaded.

Where once, these childhood incidents ended with a smile on his face and asking a myriad of questions, now he just felt nothing but a void, nothing that would ignite that spar again. 

At only 9, he felt worn out by what the last few years had entailed. He missed the laughter in the house, the smell of his Mama's cooking and going fishing with his Daddy or LJ.

Football practice was the high point, it gave some structure to his week and had strengthened his young body. 

Teamwork even with boys who he hated and who hated him taught him the purpose of a common goal. Though he knew once achieved he was fair game in the locker room showers for a beating from those same team mates. 

He learnt the catharsis that came with running until he collapsed puking, but never quite managed to run until his soul felt unburdened.

He sat in the church on nights it was too cold to stay outside, and his knees would be bruised and swollen from the hours he would spend kneeling in prayer. He blamed his poor grades the year she got sick, his using the Lord's name in vain when she first collapsed, his getting into a fight when she came home to die.  
He took to praying every day, working hard at school, running errands and being as godly a child as Mrs Lowe had spoken about in Sunday school. But still his Mama got sicker and her body became so frail and frightening. 

In the changing colours of the autumn, he had his tenth birthday a point which he'd been sure he'd be grown enough to understand what was surrounding him. Instead he woke to the sounds of his Mama coughing violently and LJ's rich bass voice offering her comfort and promising to help her to pass away gently, the thin walls doing nothing but give an illusion of privacy. 

The coughing was new and he had seen the looks of pity as the doctor left to that this new symptom of his Mama's illness was not a good sign. He still didn't t know why she was so ill, why all the medication she was taking didn't make her well. 

He has been sitting in the shadows when he saw his Daddy lift Mama from the bed. The soiled bedding filling the room with a stench unlike anything he'd smelt in the boy's lavatories in school. It smelt of the death by the slaughterhouse on Cooper's way.

That night he tried again to pray to the God he now was convinced didn't hear him. He wanted to shout about what was happening the beatings and slurs, the way his Mama now looked even more like a grotesque twisting of a nightmare. Her sunken red eyes and nightgown splashed with coughed blood, morphed with the spectres who'd burned the cross and why he didn't understand that LJ now slept in the big second bedroom where his Daddy's had already moved into the year before. He wanted someone to hold him, but no one did.

The football coach told him that one day he'd understand. That he had some growing to do and some living to complete, but one day he promised he'd understand.

In the first snow of that winter, his Mama died one morning before the sun had barely risen from the horizon. He awoke to an unnerving silence, the roar of absent noises that had long passed into background noise.

As he stood in front of the toilet having his morning piss, it suddenly hit him that what was missing was the harsh wet coughs of his Mama and the following noises of pain. There were no sounds of comfort from his Daddy or LJ.

Finishing as quickly as he could he ran from the bathroom and into the chest of his Daddy.

'I want to see mama he cried as the older man's arms closed around his still slight frame. Crushed against the once welcoming chest his voice was muffled.

'She's gone son, she's gone.' His Daddy's voice rough, weak and broken as he struggled to make those words become substance. 

They stopped him from saying his goodbyes, from touching her one last time. They told him to remember her as she was, but those memories of her being well were corrupted, overlayed by the years of sickness and of its sights and smells.

He fought and railed against Jackson's chest and arms, as strong and unyielding as steel cables held him tight. 'No crying now, you're a grown boy now, not a baby. Don't let them see you cry.' 

With words not meant to be cruel, his Daddy tossed more bitter words into that chaotic pit of emotions inside Leroy where he pushed all his fears. The place that would continue to be filled throughout his life and would at times control his actions. It would hungrily feed on the sights and sounds of war and conflict, the grief and loss of his own family and the abyss of mans treatment of his fellow as, as an NCIS Special Agent he would stare into repeatedly. 

But that is in the future and not even a thought inside 10-year-old Leroy's mind. He just wanted to run, from the house and its silence. He wants to throw all the voices of adults telling him what to do and what to think, and he doesn't yet have the vocabulary to accurately express the turmoil he feels.

He runs from the constriction of his Daddy's arms and the stifling wrongness of the house.  
The snows cling to the hems of his trouser legs and he feels no cold through his Flash Gordon pyjamas that offer no real protection from the weather.

His steps faltered and on several occasions, he falls into the snow, but his small body is moving on autopilot across the fields and over the wooden bridge till he comes to a halt in the woods by an old cabin. It's here, on the broken wooden steps that he realised his mind has slowed and the turbulent currents, gentled to a quietness he has been searching for a.

Unlocked, he's able to push into the cabin, his movements disturbing dust which adheres to the wet fabric and skin like a cloak. He instantly feels its warmth and is grateful for its protection from the cutting wind. The fatigue from the run is beginning to make its self known to him.

He looks at the wood stove, wood burning in it's pot belly and is sure he sees a mug of hot chocolate just out of his reach, and feels frustrated at not being able to grasp it. He figured a little nap would be good and then he'd make his way back to the house.


	2. The Traveller

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The traveller stumbles upon a small child.
> 
> Trigger Warnings.  
> Child neglect (referenced)  
> Klu Klux Klan (referenced)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note
> 
> As always I am grateful for any help or advice, I would welcome the skills of a more experienced writer for a Beta reader.
> 
> Thank you,  
> Firemancer

The Traveler

The basic cabin had been a resting place for hunters and the odd wanderer over the years. The wood stove was cold and had been to for many years, an old enamel cup chipped and the inside coated by the detritus of life, abandoned on its top.

It was some hours before the Marine damaged in both body and mind by the unremitting battles in Korea reached the derelict cabin. The wooden structure and patch of land he'd bought for $100 was his chance at peace. Feeling much older than his 22 years he yearned to find a place to start again. He'd be near enough to the little town to buy supplies but far enough away not to be drawn into its orbit.

He'd travelleroom across the country on goods trains sitting in an empty wagon watching the countryside whip along from the large open door. His few possessions he carried in a seabag and in the handmade toolbox that held the tools of his apprenticeship, carefully collected to allow him to start the journey as a carpenter and joiner. That was before the day his number came up in the draft and with numerous others, he stood on the yellow footprints at Parris Island, then in the frozen wastes of a country, he couldn't find on a map.

The cabin needed work he'd known that but with work and the natural materials around him, he'd get it done.

The small footprints in were visible against the virgin snow, they came out of the woods to the side of the cabin and set a trail up on the porch and in through the door. The toes left their individual dips on the snow and a thin drag marks indicated their owner was a barefoot child whose fatigue caused them to drag their toes between steps.

Why would a small child was out in these conditions, alone?

He slowly opened the door not wishing to startle his squatter. Stepping inside be felt the benefit of being in out of the elements.

In the poorly furnished room, he could see a mound of ratty looking blankets with an unruly mop of dark hair protruding.

'Hey, kid' His own voice sounded unfamiliar to his ears, it had been a while since he'd spoken.

'Kid, you ok?' Cautiously he extended a hand and shook the bundle a couple of times before a tear-stained face looked vacantly up at him.

'Mama???' Gibbs looked up at the stranger but saw his Mama, the room was very warm, so he began to shrug off the thick quilt and his pyjamas top to help himself cool down

The stranger removed a glove and felt the exposed skin on the young boy's stomach. It was ice cold and the youngster looked underweight, ribs clearly visible as were bruises of different ages and hues. He felt bile rush up his throat in response to the marks of neglect and abuse so familiar to that of his childhood. Shrugging off his thick coat he wrapped it tightly around the small body tucking the collar up around the dirty little head.

Thankful for the pile of dry wood near the stove he began clearing the firebox before using his knife to shave off some thin pieces of wood till he had a handful of kindling. His Zippo sent up a tongue of flame at the first thumbing of the striking wheel, he touched it to the ball of kindling before pushing it carefully in among the wood.

The wood burned with a crackle as the flames strengthened and began to eat hungrily into the thicker pieces of wood. He added another piece then closed the door of the stove.

Looking over to the now shivering boy he was glad that he was starting to reverse the hypothermia he'd known the youngster was suffering from, he'd seen so many cases of it in Korea.

Coming from a long line of backwoodsmen and growing up in Boulder Colorado you learned how to hunt and survive in the deep woods. He'd felt returning to his childhood home would not be possible after Korea, the anger that roared to life so quickly that his hands would be balled and flailing before he realised they were, a liability outside a war zone.

Heat slowly filling the main room and the boy wrapped up. He began to search his surroundings more fully.

Off the main room were a further three rooms and a small loft bedroom. The bathroom was no more than a washbowl and jug above which was hung a short tin bath from a nail. dirt which coated seemingly every surface wouldn't take long to clean away. The storeroom and kitchen were as basic, the rough wooden shelves that lined the room had a few glass jars and earthenware pots some had barely legible labels. He had no doubt that somethings would be salvageable, others could be repurposed. A window looked out upon terrain who's layout was made anonymous by the covering of snow. Out there supposedly lay a vegetable garden and root store, neither were visible anymore, other than a few brown stalks which poked through the whiteness. He could see the outline of the lake, the uprights of a dock capped with snow but easily identifiable.

Opening the door to the last room he found instead a wide ladder which rose up through a hatch in the ceiling that went into the loft bedroom. The room also had a few articles of discarded clothing and footwear hung from hooks set to the side, the ladder itself looked safe and he ascended it carefully feeling each tread for its safety before committing his weight to it. Not wishing to be far from his small squatter, the man on the rose as far as his head and shoulders through the hatch. A rough-hewn wooden bed was as utilitarian as the pieces of furniture downstairs, that was fine, the work he'd invest in creating new pieces would help to keep him busy.

Another check on the sleeping form and he saw the boy had moved onto his front, little hands holding onto the coating material and the skin thankfully looking a lot more healthy colour now his circulation was working better.

The man returned to his seabag, opening it and rummaging for a moment before pulling out a large Billy can. He stood and made his way out onto the porch, the sky was full of clouds bringing more snow a cold wind pushing them and the stranger was glad he'd packed several days worth of food. Using the can as a scoop, he filled it with clean snow and returned to the warmth of the cabin.

As he placed the can on the stovetop to melt he looked again and the small boy. To be sleeping so long the child must be exhausted, he was certainly in the grip of hypothermia when the man had arrived and found him. Why was a young child in his nightclothes so far in the woods on his own? The nearest town must be 5 or 6 miles away, and he wondered if there was another cabin or small settlement that was closer. Pondering those ideas, he started to organise things from his seabag out onto the table. Taking a pouch he measured out dark granules then poured some of the now boiling water into a French press and before long the smell filled the room allowing the coffee to reach his preferred strength. Sitting back on the chair he warmed his hands around the enamel mug, letting the warmth and aroma soothe him as he pondered what to do about the boy.

Surely someone had realised the boy was missing, the light was fading fast even though the snow reflected what light there was, navigation would be awkward and time-consuming. He looked and the swaddled up child and decided tomorrow would be soon enough to find his family.

He was pleased to see the youngster sleeping peacefully, hopefully, once the kid slept off his exhaustion, he'd be up to talk a little. Seeing the bruises and skinny little body had brought up uncomfortable memories of his own childhood on the family farm. Having the tar beaten out of him was a regular occurrence, often ending up on the floor in pain watching his father's boots as the man moved about him railing against all the ills of the world which he perceived as conspiring against him and the farm.

The Traveller would just wait until the corn liquor took effect and the brutal man passed out in the fireside chair. Lost for a moment in the memory, a buffet of wind against the cabin's side brought him back.

He needed movement.

Standing he walked over to the kitchen area, it would be serviceable after a good clean and a few repairs, The sink hand a hand pump to bring the water up from the well and with the snow falling hard and the brightest part of the day already gone, crawling around outside trying to fix it was not very appealing at the moment.

The first pump was against a fair amount of resistance, as he slowly brought the handle up the whole pump groaned and complained, but he was rewarded by a small trickle of dusty, slightly rusty water. So he repeated the movements and each time found the mechanism became easier to use and the rusty trickle had become a flow of crystal clear icy water that tasted fresh.

Pulling the heavy seabag to the table he began to remove his possessions from it a few sets of heavy clothing, enough to hopefully see him through winter and the best part of spring. Then came a wooden box filled with the seeds that would fill the cabin's vegetable garden with enough fresh food for him and to also barter or sell with those around his. With his rifle and traps that would cover most of what he'd need. Wrapped in some stout cloth came to his treasured books ones he often returned to never tiring of the stories that had been with him through childhood and all of his adult life so far. A couple of plain but warm blankets which he'd use tonight, tomorrow he'd clean and air out the bedroom and the rest of the cabin, but he was loathed to make noise and disturb his young squatter.

The cabin had warmed up beautifully, the glow from the stove had brought some life to the room. The growling of his stomach made him smile and reach for the food he'd brought with him, the dusty jars in the store cupboards would be something he braved in daylight, now he wanted some comforting food and hopefully something he could entice the boy to eat.

He unwrapped the pound of bacon and taking the knife from his belt, cut two thick pieces from it before being them. Throwing them into a cast-iron skillet and placing it on top of the stove, watching the thick layer of bacon fat soften then begin to fry the chunks of meat. Returning to his seabag he pulled out a bottle of beans he'd been told were a winning recipe by the man tending at the store, hoping they'd at least be as good as his Aunt Prudence's he handed over the extra money. As they joined the browning bacon the smell was promising the hint of caramel sugar over a smokey base. His loaf of fresh bread was put on the table with a small pat of butter. As he fed a few more pieces of wood into the belly of the stove, he began to hear some snuffling from beneath his coat.

'A man would surely like to share this hot food with someone?' He asked as if to the cabin itself. 'For it 'd be a waste to throw it to the bears.'

'We ain't got bears here.' A small voice came from his coat.

'Well, if that's true I should just thorough this lovely bacon and beans to the raccoons unless you would like some?'

He turned to see the dirty-faced mite watching him with blue eyes older than their years. The boy's hair was sticking in every direction, and he tried to flatten it down with his small hands.

'If you need me to help you, but I ain't any money.' A lot of rustling as the boy disappeared his head back into the coat and reappeared looking as if weighing up the traveller before opening his right hand. 'You could have this instead, it's an Indian arrowhead, that could be payment like bartering you know?'

'Do you remember where you found it, 'cause that's a good find an worth a good meal?'

The boy nodded solemnly.

'Then let us eat and discuss hunting for more treasures.'.

As the traveller stood he saw the boy shrink back into the safety of the coat a little and watched, the arrowhead gripped tightly in his hands. Choosing to pretend to ignore the boy, he served each of them a serving of bacon and beans, poured them both some coffee, sweetening the boy's liberally with condensed milk.

'You need to wash your hands and face young sir. Here take this and go use the pump over there.' He watched as the boy pocketed the arrowhead and caught to cloth and walked over to the kitchen sink to wash up. It wasn't a moment before he was back, hands and face not so much cleaner but at least there had been an attempt. Hopping back on to his chair the boy waited until the man took a mouthful before pushing the arrowhead over on the table to him and taking up his spoon and rapidly began scooping up the hot food..

'Hey, slow down son. That's all your food and there's more if you need, I'm not going to take it from you. Ok?'

'Ok.'

He let the boy eat about half of what he had in front of him before he thought about trying to ask some questions.

'I'm new here, and I thought you might be able to tell me about where I am?' He watched the boy as he swallowed a spoonful of food.

'My name is Nathaniel, Nate.' He paused hoping that the boy would pick up from here and give his name, instead he just kept watching.

Ok thought Nate, let's just be more direct.

'What's your name son?'

'My Mama called me Leroy, most call me Gibbs.'

'Can I call you Leroy, it's a good name?'

Sadness fell across the boy's face.

'No, that's what my Mama called me.' Eyes filled with tears and a grubby sleeve was hastily dragged over his face in an attempt to hide them. 'She died, cancer got her.' His young voice fading to a breathy whisper, a conscious effort not to cry.

'I'm sorry, what if I call you Gibbs, will that be ok?' That was answered with a rapid nodding and another wipe with the sleeve across the eyes.

Nate, just kept a watch on Gibbs and let the silence do its work, bombarding the boy with questions would be counterproductive, somehow he knew this boy's life was one of silence and hugging the shadows. The realisation made him sick to his stomach, a small boy who just wanted to be a shadow.

'This is good.' Gibbs pipped up after a few minutes.

'Thank you, I'm glad you're enjoying it, would you like some bread?'

'Mmm, please.'

Gibbs had emerged further from his borrowed coat, now showing the orange of bean juice around his mouth but thankfully some pink to the earlier pale cheeks. Pleased with this little victory, Nate handed over the thick cut of bread and cut his own slice before mopping up some of the rich tomato sauce and taking a bit. From the corner of his eye, he watched as Gibbs copied it.

'Fancy splitting the last of the bacon and beans with me?'

'Please.'

They sat in companionable silence, just the sound of the silverware knocking against the plates. By now Gibbs was sitting Indian style on the bunched up coat and taking the first sip of his hot drink.

'I like this.'

'I'm glad, that's a special drink just for you, but you can't have another of those tonight so savour it.' Nate could see the information percolating, the boy scrunching up his brow as he went through his memory for the reason he couldn't have more of the nice sweet drink. Coming up with no answer Gibbs had to ask.

'Why?'

''Cos boys shouldn't have coffee, but I think your old enough to have one drink.' Gibbs nodded firmly agreeing that yes, he was old enough.

'I'm 9 almost, well nearly 10.'

The boy looked younger if anything.

'That is grown up. Are you warm enough now, you were very cold when I came in?'

'Yes thank you, Is this your cabin, I'm sorry I was here.' Nate could see doubt clouding Gibbs' face again.

'Well Gibbs, yes this my new home and I'm going to be living here full time, but I'm glad you were already here and staying out of the cold. But, shall I tell you something?

He looked over his shoulder as though checking to see no one was trying to overhear what he was about to say. Nate had to suppress a smile when Gibbs copied his movements, the boy's small features a study of concentration. He lent towards the Gibbs.

I'm glad you were making sure no wild animals were in here to scare me when I opened the door. Most of all, I'm glad to make a friend of you, seeing as though I'm new to the area and need a guide.

Again Nate watched the information being taken on board. He hoped that if he built a little confidence and trust before asking about where Gibbs had come from. Why he was running about the woods on his own wearing just thin pyjamas and with bare feet?

Was Nate going to need to inform the Police, have someone prosecuted to keep the lad safe? This promised to be an easy way of making enemies before he was even established in the area. He had always been one to protect others, those who couldn't protect themselves. As he was growing up, in the Corps and anywhere else, Nate had always stood between those who tried to hurt or intimidate others and their prey.

'So, it's okay?' Gibbs ventured as he pulled the coat back up to his chin.

'Yep, it's okay.' He was rewarded with a smile that just about lit-up the room.

' Cos, I'd be a really good guide, show ya where I found the arrowhead and the best fishing holes, where you can catch really big fish. Do you like crawfish, I know where they are too, and there's a patch where you can pick up pieces of coal, as, as, as big as your head. You just got 'a make sure the guards from Gantry's mine don't catch 'ya.'

Instantly the boy's excited chattering crashed to a halt and he appeared to shrink in on himself, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them.

'Its ok son, you're safe here. Yeah?'

Gibbs first rested his head on his knees, then lay his head sideways his cheek pressed on the knobbly little joints. The boy's blue eyes were searching Nate's face giving the older man a feeling that the youngster has been let down repeatedly by the adults in his life. Sensing that Gibbs would talk when he felt right, Nate busied himself cleaning up the plates. All the time he could feel those clear blue eyes tracking his movements, considering all the information and trying to come to the correct conclusions.

Gibbs certainly was a patient youngster.

'Uhum.'

'It's getting too dark and cold to go wandering through the woods now, we don't want the bears to eat us.'

'You're funny, I told you there ain't none here.'

'Hmm, you sure?'

'Yep.'

'Well, maybe we can stay inside tonight and see what the snow is like tomorrow, what do you think?'

'Uhum, cos the bogeymen might be out there.'

Gibbs' young voice was quiet, hesitant and scared. His eyes flicked towards the night blackened window and Nate was sure Gibbs was unconscious of the few steps from he took from the window and towards the fire. The fear of the bogeyman was real to the boy.

'Its ok Gibbs, the bogeyman doesn't really exist -.'

Wide-eyed, Gibbs quickly moved in front of Nate.

'Seen them.' The words were whispered 'They set fires in their pointy white hats.'

With that Gibbs scuttled up on the sofa and wrapped the coat tightly around him until he was mostly hidden. Nate could see the complete fear in the vivid blue eyes. Whoever or whatever had terrified Leroy Jethro Gibbs.

Nate remembered being scared of the dark as a child and more recently the hours of darkness as he and his patrol lay flattened to the frozen ground, where every noise had him jumping and straining his eyes trying to find the source. He wouldn't tease the small boy for his fears and what sounded like a run-in with the Klu Klux Klan. He felt very protective of the boy and sorting through his Seabag he pulled out the poncho he'd been issued at induction, it's size so would fully cover the window of the cabin hopefully this would Gibbs to relax again.

From his position on the sofa, Gibbs watched the endless darkness of the window being covered, that was good much more comfortable for him. He'd been happy that Nate hadn't just laughed at his fears and told him it was all in his imagination.

'There we go, no bogeymen can spy on us.'

'Mhmm' Gibbs relaxed now the outside was hidden from him.

They sat comfortably in each other's company for a while and then Nate could see Gibbs was fidgeting, shifting about on the sofa.

'You ok?'

To be continued


	3. Bears and Beanjuice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pair set off to reunite Gibbs with his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, help and advice is gratefully received and the assistance of a Beta reader welcomed.

Bears and Bean Juice

Nate watched as the small boy kept fidgeting, Gibbs would look to the door then the covered window before having a fidget, then repeating the cycle. Suddenly he realised Gibbs probably needed to use the head but was too embarrassed to ask him, and too scared to take a walk outside.

From the little information, he'd been given about the property Nate knew the composting toilet was a separate small building set the way from the back of the cabin. He stood and decided to see if there were anywhere the boy could relieve himself as a temporary measure for tonight, there was no way of knowing what state the outhouse would be in and trying to roust a family of raccoons from there in the dark wasn't something he fancied doing. 

The kitchen was a place likely to have some type of container Gibbs could use for tonight. Under the sink, there were so many bottles and jars of every type of configuration imaginable. He had a good ratch and pulled out a bucket, it wasn't very big but it would be enough for the little guy and if he put it at the back door it would offer him some privacy too. Nate would just take a piss from the door of the cabin tonight, deal with the outside head tomorrow after he got Gibbs to his family, see what was happening and if it was still a suitable home though as the newcomer he'd not really know what else would be available.

'Gibbs, I've put a bucket by the back door so if you need to use the head, then use that until we make sure no bears are in the outhouse.'

The sound of small feet preceded the blue-eyed boy, who now was holding on to himself through the thin material pyjama pants in a desperate attempt not to wet himself.

'What's a head mean?'

'Marines call the latrine, the head. So if you want to go, I'm going back to the fire so you have some privacy.'

Turning his back, Nate hadn't taken half a dozen steps before he heard the sound of a stream of piss hitting the bucket and he hoped the boy's aim was good. He was sitting down when the noise was replaced by feet coming towards him.

'Wash your hands.'

Footsteps then the sound of the pump handle being operated then hands being washed, well more like run under the stream of water quite quickly.

'Done.'

'Okay, soo what do Marines call the latrines?'

'The head.'

'Well done. The right time to get some sleep. You can have my coat with a blanket, and I will use my sleeping bag, so let's snuggle down and sleep.'

It took no time at all the top of Gibbs' head was all that was visible of the boy. Nate listened as Gibbs' breathing evened out and he fell into a deep sleep. Sadly, despite his exhaustion, Nate worried if his sleep would be disrupted by visits to the wastelands of Korea and the horrors that were now firmly attached to any mention of that country. Although he was concerned any nightmare would terrify Gibbs' If he witnessed the screams and flailing limbs, his body's need for sleep overruled everything.

Morning came quickly and the need to empty his bladder and start to top up his coffee reservoir, strangely he felt rested for the first time since landing back in the States. 

Looking to the sofa, the mixed pile of blankets which still centred on the boy's mop of hair that looked even more unruly than yesterday, it appeared that Gibbs was still asleep. Nate decided to give him a little longer before waking the child up.

It didn't take too long to coax the fire back into life and the chill lifted from the cabin. Unpinning the poncho the early morning light made it obvious that snow had fallen, all signs of human footsteps had been obliterated, but the footprints of all kinds of wildlife were visible. Today he'd need to find where Gibbs had come from, it was possible that people were already searching for him and if he was honest Nate didn't want the first time he met the local law enforcement as if they thought he'd detained or interfered with the youngster in any way. 

Opening a tin of spam, Nate cut it into thick slices and began frying them in some grease, then added a tin of baked beans. It wasn't much different than what they'd eaten the previous night, but it would fill their stomachs and fuel the search for Gibbs' family. He hoped with what clothing he had and the contents of the cabin he could fashion clothing for the small child to protect him against the cold and snow. He marvelled at how he'd ended up safe, there had been so many points in the last day where Gibbs could have died due to exposure or suffered serious and life-changing damage to his extremities.

His thoughts were interrupted by a tug to his pant leg, a hand gripped and tugged again as the child's blue eyes stared into his. 

'Nate, can I have some of that it smells nice and, I'm really hungry?'

It really looked as though Gibbs was unsure that he would actually share the food with him. Again he had to wonder what home life was like for the boy. If his mother had been ill for a long time, had he needed to take care of himself for a while, he certainly was small for his age.

'Of course kid, you're my right-hand man. I can't have you going hungry. C'mon, go use the head and then wash your hands. I'll dish out the food, go on.'

Off went the little guy to use the head and wash up as Nate served the food and sorted out the coat and blanket Gibbs had slept in. Before long they were both chowing down and both drinking very milky coffee, Gibbs looking very pleased to have been given another drink of the liquid. Yet again there was an alarming amount of bean juice around his face. Not having younger siblings or much exposure to children he was certainly learning as he went.

'Okay, time to wash the plates then ourselves. Follow me, Marine.'

'I'm Marine?'

'Yep, you need to have a proper wash, comb your hair and then we shall go for a mission to find where you live.'

They went into the kitchen, and Nate lifted Gibbs onto the kitchen surface by the sink. Nate took off his shirt and under-shirt stripping to his waist before he opened his wash bag. Gibbs was struggling out of his pyjama top, exposing his skinny torso with it's fading bruises and prominent ribs. Nate wanted to say so much but let the words go unsaid, those words he'd save for Gibbs' father. He wanted to hear more of those infectious laughs and see the wide smile and sparkling eyes. Give the boy some fun memories before he was back into the real world outside the safety of the cabin.

'Ok, wait there while I bring over some hot water, you pump some of the cold water into the sink for me.'

He returned with a pan filled with hot water, and carefully added it to the sink. Grabbing his soap he began washing before handing the bar to Gibbs who copied Nate's actions. They washed their hair helping each other to rinse the suds away by pumping cold water over their heads, each laughing as the other reacted to the cold water. Hair was towelled dry and combed into a smart state. Shaving cream was liberally applied to faces, Nate shaved, then proceded to use his razor minus the blade to 'shave' Gibbs. The whole event was filled with fun and laughter.

'Right, time to get dressed ready to go.'

Tipping his whole seabag onto the table, Nate tried to find clothes he could use to wrap Gibbs' up against the cold. He'd found a bag of torn rags and sacking that he hoped to fashion into coverings and protect the boy's feet. Some larger pieces of sacking and canvas would act as a crude outer coat that would stop any snow from melting into and then causing the coat to become wet.

Over Gibb's' pyjamas went a couple of the Marine's undershirts, they hung past the youngster's knees and there was so much extra material that it was almost possible to wrap it around a second time. The folds were secured by a length of cord around the small waist.

Several pairs of woollen socks were pulled up legs, the feet shortened and folded under the feet to act as cushioning. Tied at the knees and with the undershirts covering them the last layers would ensure Gibbs' wouldn't be in the terrible condition that Nate had found him in. The strips of sacking covered by canvas gave basic shoes, extra socks became gloves, a scarf covered the little head and neck.

'Okay Marine let's go!'

Pulling on his outerwear and then taking the little guy's hand they left the cabin before they stepped into the deep snow, Gibbs' climbed up onto Nate's back slinging his arms around the older man's neck, his feet tucked into the coats large pockets. 

With his human rucksack, Nate began walking in the direction of the general store he'd bought many of his supplies from, hopefully, the owner's would have heard of a boy going missing in the local area and be able to contact any search teams. He didn't really know how he felt about the fact in a couple of hours the chatty little guy would be back in the situation that ended with him lying on the cabin's tatty sofa succumbing to hypothermia on his own.

To be continued


End file.
